


Thirty Years of Onus

by fireweed15



Category: Sparks Nevada Marshal on Mars, The Thrilling Adventure Hour
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alien Culture, Cross-cultural, M/M, Sort Of, smut to be posted at a later date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-01-16 05:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12336612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireweed15/pseuds/fireweed15
Summary: Sparks Nevada didn't go into marriage so much as he blindly stumbled into it—and he's not sure if the fact that he stumbled blindly into it with Croach is a good thing or not yet.





	1. Chapter 1

Even under a canopy, the sun beat down on the pair of them. Despite the sun and the heat, the air around them was absolutely frigid. Sparks' hands curled into loose fists and uncurled again on the blanket on which they sat; Croach simply sat quietly—which only fueled Sparks' simmering annoyance.

"I blame you for this," he said at length.

The announcement seemed to startle Croach. "Why me?" he asked.

"You're always talking about 'onus this' and 'onus that,'" he grumbled, surrounding the remarks about onus with air quotes. "You never thought to mention that hey, in Marjun culture, five years of being under onus is practically being _engaged_?"

Croach winced (it was unclear if it was because of the sharp tone or the marshal's use of the word "Marjun") before murmuring, "Sparks Nevada, I promise you, I did not know—"

"Shut it," Sparks dismissed. "I'm pissed and I'm not talking to you in that state."

"You are the one who initiated conversation," Croach pointed out at length.

Sparks jabbed a finger upward, pointing to the structure under which they sat. "We're under a canopy, shut it."

Conversation between the two effectively died after that. Life for the rest of Croach's tribe continued around them, like water around a river rock. From time to time, passerby would offer well wishes, which the tracker accepted for both of them.

At length, they were joined by a pair of females—both of whom were apparently familiar to Croach, who embraced and exchanged quiet words with each of them in turn. After a few moments, he turned to Sparks, his hand resting, very briefly, on the latter's arm. "Sparks Nevada, this is my family—" He indicated each as he introduced her—"Amirmi the Basketweaver, and Shíra the Tanner. Amáa, this is Sparks Nevada the Human."

"Ma'am. Ma'am." He nodded slightly to each, touching the brim of his hat. As irritated as he was with Croach and with the situation, he couldn't bring himself to feel the same ire for his innocent family members.

"They have prepared the traditional first meal and are witness to our exchange of gifts," Croach explained, his attention more on Sparks.

"Great," he replied, his fingers curling against the denim of his trousers and looking around to see if anyone else was approaching—so far, no. "So… uhh, shouldn't we wait for your father too?"

Croach simply blinked. More tellingly, Amirmi and Shíra exchanged brief, knowing glances and grinned.

_That_ was, in Sparks' experience, next to never a good sign. "What?"

"We like your betrothed," Shíra announced, speaking more to Croach than to the group.

"His human sense of humor is amusing," Amirmi added, offering Sparks a reassuring smile, as if trying to say that the amusement wasn't ill-intentioned.

"I am so goddamned confused right now, Croach," Sparks interjected, shooting the latter a vaguely pointed look.

"My progenitors are females—these are my mothers," the tracker explained.

"... _Oh._ " Now that _that_ fact had been pointed out, the family resemblance between them and Croach was _much_ more noticeable. "I'm sor—I didn't mean—"

"It is forgiven," Shíra replied easily.

Amirmi nodded in agreement, patting Spark's knee in the affectionate way mothers did. "You are our son now, too."

The words were well meant, but stung in a way that Sparks couldn't quite describe. Perhaps that was for the best, given that there was a meal they were supposed to share sitting between them. Part of him wanted to ask what it _was_ , apart from a stew of some kind—he knew what Croach ate when given the choice, and very little of it was kind to humans—but a bigger part of him wasn't sure if that was tacky or not.

Blessedly, Croach intervened in the form of a question directed at his mothers—about the contents of the meal. Based on the listed both of them supplied, it sounded like the recipe had been _heavily_ modified, but would be all around edible.

Now if only eating could be a painless process. Not the case in Martian wedding rites, apparently, given that the pair of them were provided with a single deep spoon and one cup of pale green tea. He was nothing if not a quick learner, and discovered that they were meant to share both.

That mystery solved, the meal went relatively painlessly. (Unless Sparks counted the fact that whoever had prepared the meal didn't factor in the natural spice of curry, or even the bittersweetness of simmered cactoid tea.) There was, no doubt, some symbolism to it all, but he didn't bother asking questions right now.

After what felt like a small eternity, the empty dishes were taken away. Now, Sparks watched as Croach accepted a bolt of cloth from his mothers before turning and offering it to him. "Sparks Nevada, please accept this as my gift to you."

"Thank you," he murmured in reply, taking the cloth—a blanket—into his lap. It was woven, the fibers dyed a rich blue and stitched with white. "'S a nice blanket."

After a moment, he realized that Shíra and Amirmi were looking at him rather expectantly. He caught Croach's gaze out of the corner of his eye, silently willing him to provide some kind of guidance.

Croach leaned in to murmur in Sparks' ear, "You must give something, as well."

_Great._ "Yeah, I didn't exactly come prepared," he replied before pulling his hat off and settling it on Croach's head. "Here ya go."

The tracker lifted his hands to adjust the hat slightly to better accommodate his antennae before meeting Sparks' gaze. "I accept. Thank you."


	2. Chapter 2

They were provided with a cordoned off section of the lodge house in which to sleep. It was nothing if not a generous offer, and normally Sparks, being the last man to look a gift horse in the mouth, would have been happy to accept… except—"I am _not_ sleeping with you."

Croach stood on the opposite of the (single) bed that had been laid out for them. "It is only temporary, Sparks Nevada," he reminded.

"No way," he insisted, shaking his head and lifting his hands as if washing them of the whole situation. "If it means touching your eggsacs or God only knows what the hell else you have—"

"There is no expectation that we will consummate the marriage," Croach interrupted.

The comment stopped Sparks' tirade mid-thought. He blinked once… twice… "'m sorry?"

"The expectation that we will be consummating the union with mating rituals," he clarified. "Humans brought this idea to G'loot Praktaw—"

"Mars," Sparks cut in, almost reflexively.

"—which we designate G'loot Praktaw." Croach's reply was the equally reflexive refrain.

Sparks was silent as he considered this new knowledge. "So… nothing physical?"

"Not unless you wish there to be," he confirmed, "and you have already made your opinion on the subject quite clear."

He thought about it a little more before proposing a solution. "We share the bed but we're sleeping back to back—sound good?"

"That sounds agreeable," Croach replied, nodding once.

"Good." The fact that the matter was somewhat settled didn't make the fact that he had never really changed or been less than fully dressed around Croach. He was hardly body shy, but the circumstances were hardly normal, either.

Sparks went as far as pulling off his shirt before pausing. "Are things going to get weird if I'm in my socks?" The dead last thing we wanted to remember was _that_ hands on lesson. "If you are, I'll sleep in my boots."

Croach lifted his hands passively, the gesture not unlike a human shrug. "We are each other's betrothed," he reminded (rather unnecessarily). "It would not matter either way—but I will not 'get weird'"—the phrase was accompanied by fully human air quotes—"about your socks."

Muttering that sounded suspiciously like "thank god for small mercies," Sparks finished undressing before crawling between the blankets.

Behind him, Croach removed and carefully folded his vest before lying down next to and facing away from the human. "Sleep well, Sparks Nevada."

Finally, the first familiar thing he'd experienced all day. "Yeah, you too, Croach."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I forgot I'm updating this on Wednesdays. My bad sorry.


	3. Chapter 3

Sparks' sleep was deep and dreamless—hell, it was surprisingly _good_ —and carried him to morning. He woke slowly, without an alarm for the first time in readily-recalled memory. It felt _impossibly_ comfortable, and he settled in for a slow wake up, his fingers curling loosely against his bedmate's chest—

Wait.

He woke more fully, propping himself up on one elbow and taking stock of the situation—still in the lodge house of Croach's tribe, in a hastily made marriage bed, with Croach himself nestled, spoon-like, against Spark's body. "Oh, _goddamnit..._ "

Sparks' exasperated groan woke Croach. The tracker sat up, fully alert and taking stock of the situation. "What—" He paused, looking down at the arm still draped across his lap. "Sparks Nevada, this is not—"

"Yeah, I know—back to back." Sparks sat up as well, pulling his arm back to rub the back of his neck, embarrassment coloring his cheeks and the tops of his ears. "I, uh… I'm kind of a sleep cuddler."

Croach nodded once. "This will be good to know if we need to share a bed again."

"Hopefully this is a one-time deal," Sparks muttered, rolling out of bed and grabbing his clothes.

Croach didn't comment as he shrugged back into his vest. After a moment of what could only be described as careful consideration, he asked, "You slept well?"

"Huh?" Sparks looked up from pulling his jeans over his hips. "Oh yeah—slept fine." A pause as he zippered and buttoned—or rather, an awkward silence, broken only when he started to tuck in his shirttail. "You?"

"The fourth most adequate sleep of recent memory," he pronounced after a moment of thought.

"Oh, just fourth?" Sparks quipped.

"A proper bed would have made it more satisfactory," he replied, passing Sparks his hat.

"Not disagreein' there." The marshal looked down at his hat before passing it back to Croach. "If this was a gift, you better keep it until we're back."

He nodded before laying the hat aside. "Do you wish to eat before our departure?" he asked. "My mothers would be willing to prepare a meal, but I cannot guarantee it will be anything you can eat."

"Unless it involves bacon, eggs, grits, or coffee, I'll pass, thanks," Sparks replied. "I've seen the kind of stuff you eat."

"What I eat provides the necessary nutrition for my survival," Croach replied before an almost mischievous grin touched his features. "Also, I believe your human expression is 'do not knock it until you have tried it.'"

"Oh I can 'try' hot lava soup all I want," he replied, gathering the last of their possessions (few as they were). "I just can't try it more than once."

"Regrettable—you might enjoy it." Had it been anyone else—human or alien—the tone would have been teasing, borderline flirtatious. Given that, maybe it was a good thing that it was Croach saying it. (And that was a hard maybe he wasn't willing to touch.)

Weaving through the encampment and the early morning life came surprisingly easy, as if second nature (at least to Sparks). Mercury was tethered on the edge of the camp, and Sparks went ahead of his companion, if only to have a few minutes to process everything. Okay—so they had been friends and working together, nominally under the prospect of onus, for a good five years and that was basically the same as being married. It wasn't great, but it was manageable at least. He was nothing if not flexible, and nothing had to actually _change_ , right?

He untied the horse's reins, giving him an affectionate scratch behind the ears as he waited. At length, Croach rejoined him, a bundle wrapped in the same he'd given Sparks yesterday tucked under his arm.

"Welcome back," he greeted.

Croach nodded in reply. "I was telling my mothers goodbye."

Now it was Sparks' turn to nod, watching as his companion (strong emphasis on the _companion_ part) place the bundle in his saddlebag. Now that Croach's back was to him, he could get a better look at the latter's vest—except for the fact that this wasn't his everyday, weathered vest. This was newer, and the back had been decorated with glass beads and silver thread, stitched into what he could only assume was a meaningful pattern. "New vest," Sparks commented.

Croach paused, one foot in the stirrup of his hoversaddle, blinking once… twice… "Ah, yes. This is a traditional pattern worn by those humans designate 'newlyweds.'"

Sparks consciously pushed away thoughts of _advertisement of the last thirty-six hours._ "Oh yeah?" he offered instead, following Croach's lead and settling into his own saddle. "From your mothers?"

The tracker nodded. "Traditionally, the betrothed receive this gift from their parents. However…" He paused, seemingly searching for the most gentle way to voice the rest of the thought. "Given that your parents are not present, they have provided one for you as well."

The gesture was impossibly thoughtful, and for a minute, Sparks felt damn near guilty that they had both welcomed him into their lives, into their son's life, without question when he hadn't done much more than blindly stumble into it. "I'll be sure to send my thanks, then." At least his tone sounded light enough. Or maybe Croach wasn't calling him out on it—he wasn't about to question a good thing.


	4. Chapter 4

The unspoken rule, upon returning to town, was to act as though nothing had changed—and for a long time, it worked. They continued to work together, maintained a household (one with separate bedrooms, Sparks was quick to remind himself)—hell, even the banter didn't change that all that much. As long as the fact that they were, technically speaking, married didn't cross Sparks' thoughts, as long as they maintained the carefully crafted façade that nothing had really changed, it was bearable.

After a few months of carefully enforced normalcy, it was almost starting to feel real. To that end, Sparks felt pretty good about things when he stood up from his desk and pronounced the day's work "graveyard dead." "I'm headin' down to the saloon," he said, rolling the tension out of his neck and shoulders. "Croach, feel like coming along?"

After a moment of careful thought, Croach put his own work to the side. "I will join you, but I will not partake," he replied.

Sparks suspected he knew the reason, but wasn't about to say anything. "That's fair," he offered instead as they departed.

There was something to be said about the streets when the sun was setting—it was quiet, vaguely comforting—familiar. The same could be said, in a way, of being in the saloon itself, it being the kind of place where one was on a first name basis with… well, anyone friendly. On that note—

_The saloon doors are open._ Then, in a friendlier, more personable tone than the one use for announcements— _Hi Croach._

"Hello, my friend," Croach greeted, pausing to pat the doorframe almost affectionately.

"Want me to leave you two alone for a minute?" Sparks asked, quirking an eyebrow. Theirs was a friendship he never quite understood, and never found it worth digging too deeply. It simply _existed._

 _It'd be nice, Marshal,_ the doors replied.

"We will be conversing for some time," Croach added.

He lifted his hands passively. "Have fun, you two," he replied before turning and making his way to the bar proper.

_I like your vest,_ the doors praised as Croach settled into a seat close to the door. _It looks nice—new?_

"It is, thank you," he confirmed. "It was a gift from my family."

_Really?_ It was all too easy to imagine the doors, if their AI was human, leaning forward with interest. _What's the occasion?_

"What my tribe designates 'betrothal,'" Croach explained, "humans designate 'marriage.'"

_Really?_ Her interest was definitely piqued now. _Who?_

Without conscious thought, Croach glanced toward the bar, his gaze falling squarely on Sparks, now engaged in conversation with the barkeep.

The doors gasped sharply, a bright smile implied in the sound. _No—really?_ Whatever immediate reply Croach had was cut off by a squeal of utter delight. _I'm so happy for you—now tell me everything, please?_

Meanwhile, Sparks settled onto a stool at the bar, nodding slightly as he caught the barkeep's eye.

"Evenin', Marshal Nevada," the barkeep greeted as he approached. "The usual?"

Sparks started to reply, but was interrupted by the loud squeal coming from the saloon doors. "Tell ya what," he said flatly. "Make the usual a whiskey."

"Been a rough last few months?" the barkeep asked, sympathetic, as he started to pour.

"You have _no_ idea," Sparks confirmed, accepting the glass.

The barkeep returned the bottle to the shelf behind him. "What's the trouble?"

"I'm in over my head with him," the marshal muttered, swirling the amber liquor in its glass, the ice clinking softly against the sides.

"With who?"

It was a fair enough question, but oooh, Sparks didn’t have to like answering it. _"Croach,"_ he replied. "Apparently, according to some—" He paused to sip the whiskey. It burned, but it was a damn sight better than the feelings churning in his gut right about now. " _Rule_ in his tribe, him being under onus to me for long as he has been means we're married. There was a ceremony and everything." He set the glass down and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. "I have no idea how to deal with this."

"Marshal, it's been almost four months," the barkeep noted, sounding appropriately stunned by this knowledge. "How've you been—"

"We _haven't_ been dealing with it," he replied, (correctly) sensing where the question was headed.

"At this point," the other began, apparently trying to phrase the next question as delicately as possible, "is just… divorcing him an option?"

"Already talked about it," Sparks grumbled. "Makes things way messier than either of us are willing to deal with." Another sip of whiskey. "Fucks up the onus, I guess?"

The barkeep huffed softly. "Leave it to Marjuns to make everything complicated."

Sparks _hmm_ ed in reply as the stool beside him was moved and someone sat down—and he realized just as quickly that the someone in question was Croach. "Hey," he greeted simply.

"Sparks Nevada," he replied, just as simply. He nodded in greeting to the barkeep (and subsequently denied anything, ethanol-based or otherwise, to drink), and seemed content to simply sit as his companion sipped his whiskey.

The silence continued the rest of the night, up to and including Sparks' impression that they were right next to each other but were worlds apart. Even by his own standards, Croach was unusually quiet, and when they moved to leave, he walked a few steps ahead of him—a marked difference from just a few hours before.

It even continued as they returned home and Croach excused himself to his rooms. By that point, Sparks could only assume he was in some kind of a way about something he'd share when he was ready for it. What was he going to do, force conversation?


	5. Chapter 5

"Sparks Nevada, do you hate me?"

The question came from his doorway as he was changing for the night—but more specifically, it came from seemingly _nowhere._ "What?" He pulled the thin cotton shirt over his head and looked at Croach with something that could only be described as "confusion." "Croach, of course not."

"I feel as though you hate me," the tracker repeated, vaguely insistant.

"Where the _hell_ did you get that impression?" Sparks asked.

"For one thing, you allow people to refer to me and to my tribe as 'Marjun.'"

The phrase was accompanied once again by air quotes, and something about it made the marshal's hackles rise. "What does that have to do with anything?" he pressed.

Croach's eyes widened, and he looked genuinely upset. "Sparks Nevada, do you comprehend how _offensive_ that is?" he asked, pointedly. "I have learned to bite both my tongues when other humans say it but around _you_ —"

"Alright—I'm sorry, okay?" Sparks interjected. "Next time someone says it, I'll tell 'em to knock it off."

Croach shook his head. "That is not enough."

Sparks threw his hands in the air, finally allowing his exasperation to show. "Then what do you want me to say, Croach? What do you want me to do?"

Croach leveled an intense gaze on him. "I want to know how you feel about our betrothal."

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Oh Jesus—"

"From the moment we were named betrothed," Croach went on, as if Sparks hadn't reacted, "you have been acting as though what we have is something distasteful."

"We're not exactly in a great situation here, Croach," Sparks pointed out, lifting his hands to indicate the room as a whole—the gesture referring not to the bedroom, but to the last few months in general.

"Why do you resent our betrothal, Sparks Nevada?" Croach demanded before indicating himself. "Is it because human culture and perceptions designate me 'male?'"

"No!" The reply came so fast it couldn't possibly be untrue. "Jesus fuck, Croach— _no_."

"Then do you wish to explain your conversation this evening?" Any semblance of personal boundaries between the two long gone, Croach entered, standing less than an arm's length from the human. "About how you 'have no idea' how to 'deal' with me?"

Embarrassment and anger colored his cheeks—of course his multiple, fine-tuned Martian senses picked that up from across the saloon. "Fine—let's review some of my past relationships." He ticked each one off on his fingers as he spoke. "Red, Rebecca, Mercy, Ginny—and those are just the ones you _know_. Y'know what happened to every single one of those relationships, Croach?"

He didn't give him a chance to reply. Every one of 'em, as soon as things started getting serious, I'd push it away. Every serious relationship I've ever had, I've personally wrecked it. You an' me, we had a _great_ thing goin' on, Croach—goddamnit, I don't want that to happen to us, too."

He took a few steps back before dropping heavily on the edge of the bed, staring at the flooring between his feet. The room was eerily quiet—doubly so after the raw energy of his confession. After a moment, the floors and mattress in turn creaked softly as Croach came to sit beside him. "Is that how you really feel, Sparks Nevada?" he asked, his voice soft and his gaze fixed on the night sky just outside the window.

"Yeah," he confirmed, just as softly. "Kind of a fucked up way to show it, huh?"

Croach didn't reply at first. Instead, he reached over Sparks' leg and loosely took one of his hands in his. "I want this betrothal…" A pause as he re-thought his choice of words. "I want _us_ to work."

For the first time, Sparks allowed himself to really feel Croach's hand in his. It felt… nice. "You've wanted that from the start, haven't you?"

He nodded slowly. "I have had feelings for you for… sparing you the specifics, what you would designate 'a very long time.'"

On some level, Sparks had suspected that to be the case for months, but hearing it was a surprise all the same. "Why didn't you ever say anything, Croach?" he asked, voice soft.

Croach's thumb brushed lightly over Sparks'. "I believe one thing on which our cultures would agree is that there is never a good time to confess feelings for someone already in a romantic coupling."

"Well, hell—" For the first time since his initial confession, Sparks met Croach's eye. "Since we're bein' honest, and there's no 'romantic coupling' going on…"

The statement was open ended, allowing the tracker to fill in the gap. Croach gripped Sparks' hand a little tighter, almost drawing strength from it, before his grip loosened; when he spoke, it was in his native language, something Sparks couldn't even imagine the spelling or translation.

He had a feeling he knew what it was, though, and something about hearing it—genuinely, knowing what he did and how he felt about everything, now that he wasn't trying to downplay its significance… Without conscious thought, he drew Croach a little closer before leaning in and pressing a kiss to his mouth. It wasn't like anything he'd felt before—but it felt _terribly_ right all the same, almost… _good_.

Croach's grip on his hand tightened for a moment before they broke away. Something about the tracker's expression, wide-eyed and vaguely awestruck, made a smile tug at the corner of Sparks' mouth. "What'd you think?"

He nodded slowly, finally finding his voice. "The best—"  Whatever else he might have said was lost as he leaned in and kissed Sparks again, this time in earnest.

In moments, the space between them was closed, their bodies flush. Sparks' arms wrapped loosely around Croach's waist, bringing him down with him as he leaned back. "Doin' okay?" he murmured, his breath warm against the latter's neck.

" _Yes—_ " Croach's reply was soft but emphatic. The backs of his fingers brushed against the marshal's cheek, the light touch belying the urgency in his kisses.

"Someone's eager," Sparks teased, his grip on Croach's waist tightening slightly.

"The same could be said for you, Sparks Nevada." Croach's hand moved deliberately downward, two fingers working between the waistband of Spark's shorts and his skin.

The touch wasn't even particularly sexually charged, but it elicited a soft moan all the same. Sparks pressed another kiss, more urgent than before, to the tracker's mouth, pushing against the bed just enough to lift his hips and wriggle out of his underclothes. "Not goin' too fast?" he breathed, working Croach's vest off of him.

Croach shook his head, his hand lingering on Sparks' hip for a moment before loosely wrapping around the latter's erect length and, almost hesitantly at first, stroking him.

The touch drew a second moan from him. "Just like that," he encouraged, almost breathless.

Seemingly heartened by the words, Croach leaned down to kiss him again—deeply. His free hand settled on Sparks' chest, the human's heart almost racing just under his fingertips, as his strokes came smoother, more fluidly.

"Y'can go faster than that," Sparks teased, the words coming out in a soft huff. "'m not _that_ fragile, Croach.

"I'd like to see you come undone, Sparks Nevada," he murmured, brushing his thumb feather light over the head of his cock, "not broken."

Sparks moaned in earnest, his back arching slightly. "Mmm, Croach—!"

Croach bent slightly, pressing his forehead to Sparks'. "Sparks Nevada—"

"Don't start—" He pressed another heated kiss to Croach's mouth, bucking his hips intermittently into his hand.

"Sparks Nevada…" Croach's voice rumbled in his chest, the sound impossibly erotic. "I—"

"—love you." The words tumbled from Sparks' mouth as easily as the moans Croach's touch worked from him. " _Mmm,_ Croach, I love you—"

The tracker cut him off with a deep kiss, his grip tightening as Sparks arched beneath him. "I love you too—" He barely broke away, just enough to murmur the words.

His hand, now slick with precum, worked Sparks' erect cock at an almost frenzied pace now, and the effort showed almost immediately. If nothing else, the sharp gasps and shuddering breaths that followed were a soft counterpoint to the intermittent creak of the bed beneath them, and to their softly murmured, almost reverent endearments.

"Croach—" Sparks' breath hitched, and he all but hid his face in the tracker's neck. "Gonna cum—mmm, _fuck_ —!"

Needing little in the way of further encouragement, Croach's his efforts redoubled until Sparks drew a sharp breath and kissed him—deep and almost _desperate_ —in an effort to muffle his cries as he came. The silence that followed filled the room, but was far from oppressive and heavy. If anything, it felt warm, fittingly intimate, the only sounds in the room their heavy breathing.

After a few moments, Sparks and Croach slowly released one another, the former pulling his shirt off and deliberately folding it in such a way that the evidence of what they'd just done was contained. After a moment of thought, he passed it to Croach, allowing him to clean his hands—it was a wash anyway, why not? "Damn," he said finally.

"Damnation has nothing to do with it," Croach replied. To anyone who didn't know him for as long as Sparks had, he would have sounded completely serious—but there was a barely perceptible note of humor in his voice that only Sparks could detect.

That realization filled him with a warmth that could only be described as profound emotional pleasure—or maybe it was the afterglow. Hard telling. "Croach—"

"We do not have to discuss this if you do not wish to," he said.

Sparks considered it for a moment. "How about you let me get dressed again and we'll see where we end up?"

It was a good arrangement, one that ended with the pair lying on top of the bedclothes, Croach's back against Sparks' chest, their fingers loosely laced together. It felt… nice—there certainly were worse ways to fall asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

That night set a precedent. Falling asleep alone just felt… strange somehow, especially knowing that each held feelings for the other, and it was by unspoken agreement that they ended up sharing beds proper.

The other aspects of their lives, like a stack of dominoes, fell into place together shortly thereafter. It wasn't to say that there weren't kinks to be ironed out—but it was no worse than any couple, they supposed.

Almost a year had passed (by Sparks' estimates, whereas Croach could tell you down to the minute, more or less), and the kitchen was quiet, save for their quiet conversation, and a radio playing in the next room.

The song changed, to something slow—and apparently, something familiar to Sparks, as he pushed away from the counter and extended a hand to Croach. "Dance with me?"

Croach looked at his hand, then shook his head. "I do not dance," he replied, "but thank you for the offer."

"You say you don't sing either—and I've heard you do that," Sparks teased.

Unable to argue with that, Croach's head canted, almost microscopically, to one side as he considered it. "If you dance half as good as you sing, you'd be good at it," Sparks went on, "and I'm not a bad teacher."

After a moment more of thought, Croach nodded. "I will participate in your lesson," he agreed, placing his hand in Sparks'.

"Way to make it sound like school," the marshal teased, leading him to the middle of the kitchen. He guided Croach's hands into the appropriate places—one on his shoulder, the other loosely gripping Sparks'. His free hand settled into a familiar dip in his betrothed's waist. "We're starting with the left—" he took a long step with his left foot, waiting for Croach to follow suit—"then sliiiiide the right over… Good. Now with the right—"

Sparks wasn't lying about being a good teacher—and Croach was a willing and attentive student. It was far from perfect, and there were plenty of missteps and bumps, but neither was complaining. If anything, it was the most fun they'd had all week.

The songs changed, and eventually the program went off the air completely. Neither noticed, both too absorbed in the lesson and in moving in slow, rhythmic circles around the kitchen (and more than once trading leads). After a few rounds—"Hey Croach?"

Croach hummed slightly, a wordless tell that he was listening intently, prompting Sparks to continue. "Y'know how human weddings have a couple's first dance?" He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his betrothed's cheek. "This is ours."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the advent of NaNoWriMo, I forgot to post the final chapter, oops. Anyway, here it is! Thanks for reading, and I hope to get some more SparksCroach goodness out there soon. <3


End file.
